joining hands in the danse macabre

in the end they will all join hands in the danse macabre.

It has not been a summer of good news. A friend wrote me yesterday, saying that she needed to look for a flight back immediately: "my sister passed away, all of a sudden."

My friend just turned an aunt the day before. How did this happen? "She was just talking to my parents and suddenly couldn't catch her breath. And then..."

"I really don't know what to say. I'm very, very sorry for your loss."

"She only saw her new born baby for a split second. Didn't even get a chance to hold it."

The conversation was cut short. I did not know what to say or do to make her feel better; she said she felt alright, just very, very surreal.

Surreal? Must be, but it could have happened to anyone. It could have been my sister, who also just gave birth to a baby girl. We are also family of two daughters, which, according to the discourse, is "a family without descendants. A family doomed to lose its family name."

One daughter stayed in the hometown, got married there, stayed close to the parents as discourse dictates; the other, the wandering one, indefinitely relocated to Europe.

Her sister was my sister's age. I've always been seized by the fear of losing an aging family member when I am abroad, but who would have imagined that it could be the younger one. Two generations younger. Our generation. Our sibling.

What will become of her? them? the baby? Will they subconsciously put the blame on the baby? The baby will never get to know her mother. Will she grow up with the sense of guilt that her mother died because of her? How does it feel like to suddenly lose a sibling, no matter close or distant? Losing my quasi genetic copy, with almost the same flesh and blood. It would be as if a part of me is eternally lost. Life would never be complete. It wouldn't be.

"Farewell, Europe," said my friend. She does not know if she is ever coming back. She has to mend the missing part; her family needs her, the discourse instructs a homecoming-- no longer in the form of yearning, but obligation.

It has not been a summer of good news. My grandfather passed away early last month. In the meantime, a close friend's grandfather was terminally ill and eventually left her last week. Her roommate, also a common friend, lost her aunt around the same time. And finally, this friend's loss of her sister that rendered me sleepless last night, restlessly imagining all the possibilities.

I tried to distract myself by reading commentaries on Loïe Fuller's dance and came across the term danse macabre.

The idea was not macabre, I found it soothing.

In the end, they will all join hands in the danse macabre.

The yearnings were almost painful in Barcelona

The Mediterranean sea was actually rather greenish, not the azure blue I had always imagined. The sky, despite the mellow weather, was not as blue either. How was it possible that this almost falsified representation of home only triggered more homesickness? Diaspora and wanderlust. Heimweh and Fernweh. The yearnings were almost painful, and when they mingled, the prodigal daughter ended up in Barcelona. By the seashore of Barceloneta.

"The sky almost looks like it's veiled." I was talking to Cat, a girl from London. Almost random, but once you traveled alone for a while, even complete strangers looked like worth a conversation.

I ran into the sea with Cat and Roxy, only meant to paddle. I was actually in my knickers, not seeing myself ending up on the seashore when I headed out for a gaudi pilgrimage that morning. But the waves were giant, almost formidable. A huge wave came and I was already soaking wet.

Salt. Salt. I could taste the salt as I opened up my mouth attempting to speak, but only silenced by an unexpected choke of salty water. I did not know how much I missed the sea until I finally had the luxury to be on a proper seashore. I forgot the smell of mussels, the balmy wind, and the forcefulness of a wave. I forgot how it felt to be wet from top to toe, hair dripping, completely knocked down by waves with the futile attempt to hold on to my underwear. I forgot how I could be all screaming and laughing, holding hands to other girls to stabilize ourselves awaiting another wave.

The last real "seashore" I went to was the Rose Sea in wales, whose serenity had a certain beauty in itself, but the grayish color almost translated as insipid. It  was a windy afternoon in June, which in northern UK equaled to never ending drizzles, scarfs and jacket. It was nothing like this, being able to sunbathe till seven o'clock at night, soaked and dried myself with the help of the gentle afternoon sun; it was nothing like just lying on the seashore, completely rid of all anxieties and existential crisis that plagued only too often. It was at least remarkable for someone whose anxieties even have anxieties.

I was on the flight back to Berlin, as the aircraft took off I looked down at the green green Mediterranean sea.

Its beauty was almost hurting. Like Heimweh. Like Fernweh.